Election night at the Trades Hall bar

A perfect night. Could there be a more ecstatic place to be on election night than the beautiful old Trades Hall bar, where the faithful could feel free to scream profanities at the pleasing vision of a humiliated Howard on the big screen as the press administered his political last rites?
































I've just realised that there is a hard and fast formula to having a brilliant night out - remove all Liberal voters from the venue. Trades Hall is like one giant, pest-controlled sanctuary unblemished by that nasty breed, and as a result, true camaraderie flowed freely as we all danced and sang to the classics of the pre-Howard era - Billy Bragg, The Pixies, The Beastie Boys, The Smiths, Midnight Oil (screaming along to 'Beds Are Burning' was fun, but, disappointingly, there was no 'US Forces'!), Blur, The Clash - ecstatic on the drug of hope (and endless stubbies of Melbourne Draught). No sleazebags, no spiky-haired posers, no uptight Cosmopolitan drinkers, no plastic surgery or fake tans, no pushy, aggressive bogans, no hostility. Just a feeling of absolute joy and love for every other human being in the room.


















There were a few craggy old John Halfpenny/Bill Kelty looking union blokes; there were a lot of gorgeous, ecstatic bright young things who have never seen an ALP government while they have been of voting age; and then there were the troupers of a certain age, those of us who saved Keating in '93 only to see him fall to a man who was not fit to stitch his Armani suits at the following election, who cried with disappointment just as those before us had cried with recognition and those after with frustration through three elections where we hadn't managed to budge the rodent. A cross section of generations and communities all united and singing the words of 'Common People' by Pulp. Conservatives can't party like we do.

I haven't been that drunk, or stayed out that late, or danced that euphorically, or hugged that many strangers for many, many moons - since the days of my teens and twenties before the blight of Howard.

Now the hangover begins... both for me, and, potentially, for all who believe that things might be any different. There's so much for Kevin to prove, and so many doubts we all have about the man. But for one marvellous night, we danced on the spectre of 11 ugly years consigned to history.